


always feel like part of this was mine

by devviepuu



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Captain Swan January Joy (Once Upon a Time), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Nostalgia, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:15:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28395222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/devviepuu/pseuds/devviepuu
Summary: In all the years Emma Swan has known Killian Jones she’s never felt anything like this--this tension, as if at any moment she might break.What would it be like?To break, to let it all out, to end their friendship--permanently--and start all over again with something new and different.(This is the one thing Emma always wondered, was always too afraid to find out.)
Relationships: Captain Hook | Killian Jones/Emma Swan
Comments: 30
Kudos: 76
Collections: CS January Joy





	always feel like part of this was mine

**Author's Note:**

> happy five-year anniversary to the CS January Joy!
> 
> From a tumblr prompt: "The way the sky looks on a really cold, clear night"

There was a bonfire.

Maybe.

Possibly?

It was a long time ago and memories fade, no matter how much the feeling remains in her brain that it all just happened yesterday.

She knows they were outside, at night. Very late. There was music.

Definitely, there was music.

Playing softly but definitely there, carefully calibrated so that no one complained or got them in trouble. In a small town, everyone’s always looking to get someone else in trouble, and that’s the truth no matter what she remembers.

It was a clear summer night. She saw the stars. She _knows_ that’s true and not something her brain made up because every time she looks up--okay, not _every_ time, but a lot--it brings it all back to her, that feeling of the darkness and the music and his fingers in her hair, which she used to wear very long, as he pulled it out of her ponytail. She remembers how he brushed up against her leg and how it made her shiver all over because she had just shaved them earlier that day and everything felt so smooth--her leg and the pads of his fingertips, the warmth and the path they accidentally-on-purpose burned into her skin.

She shivered, but she wasn’t cold.

Emma Swan is on her back on a bench by the harbor and watches her breath condense as she exhales and stares at the stars. It’s cold now--not warm, not summer. The moon is bright and full and it’s so cold she can see a halo around it. She should have worn a warmer coat.

“You should have worn a warmer coat,” comes a voice from above her, and Emma closes her eyes before she sits up, before she acknowledges it.

Just one more second to brace herself.

“Now you tell me,” she says. There is an exaggerated sigh as she reaches for his extended hand.

She doesn’t need to look for it. She knows it will be there.

He’s so warm, still, and he pulls her upright and into his warmth as if she weighs nothing; she’s in his arms, wrapped up in a hug that she never let herself think about how much she missed until right now.

No, that’s a lie.

Because there was that one night. That one night--also a long time ago--everyone at a party. Another gorgeous warm night with David, her brother--his girlfriend, now his wife, Mary Margaret--Elsa--Ruby, who had gotten Emma all dressed up over David’s protests. Emma doesn’t remember why David bothered any more; it’s another one of the details lost to the years in between. Maybe it was just his overprotective big brother routine--they were almost the same age, but David was just _enough_ older and Emma had no family other than him and his mother Ruth and David took that very seriously. Still, “all dressed up” fo Emma meant fancier jeans and cute shoes and borrowing one of Ruby’s more exciting tank tops, curling the ends of her long hair, an extra coat of mascara.

Actually, that still counted as getting dressed up in Emma’s book, unless she was working a honey-trap for a deadbeat or a skip chase. Then it was the full, unmanageable regalia of femininity: Tight, short, shiny, and strapless complete with six-inch heels. Anyone who thought she couldn’t chase them down despite all of that usually found out to their misfortune how wrong their assumptions were.

But that night, on that walk, she fell behind.

With him.

She’s still not sure how it happened, by what silent accord they started walking more slowly behind everyone else on the way home. She’s still not sure how they just started walking around the block, aimlessly, getting closer with each turn. She had her arm looped through his and he smelled so much better than anyone should smell after a party in a crowded bar and when she laughed she looked up and she could see the stars.

Emma doesn’t remember which of them stopped first.

She doesn’t remember which of them moved first.

What she remembers is how, in that moment of infinite possibility when the world seemed to contract until it was big enough for just the two of them, she heard her name being called.

And his.

“Emma! Killian!”

His smile, sheepish--his eyes twinkling--she’s maybe imagining the curse under his breath because Killian Jones never swore--she stepped out of the circle of his arms and stared at her feet as they waited for David to catch them up.

And that was it--until now, tonight. Tonight she gets to lean into him and feel his arms tighten around her because that’s what you do when you meet up with someone you haven’t seen in a decade and Emma milks every second of it and she’s sure she hears his breath catch, feels his nose against her hair.

“Hello, beautiful,” he says.

His eyes still twinkle. He still smells amazing. His voice is, somehow, deeper--the accent rougher--Killian had moved to Storybrooke, Maine about the same time Emma did and never quite los the roundness of his vowels. Ten years away, going god-knows-where and doing god-knows-what, seems to have smoothed it out in some ways and hardened the edges in others.

Emma likes it. It’s very _him_.

“How’d you find me?” she asks, because it’s early. They’re not supposed to meet the others yet.

Soon, but not yet.

His smile is devastating and his chuckle reverberates against her.

“I’ll always find you, Swan,” he says, and holds out his arm for her to take. “Now, what do you say we set sail?”

She can’t see him well in the dark, no matter how bright the moon is. It’s nothing but angles and shadows and contrast.

 _Chiaroscuro_.

That’s the word for it.

He taught her that word, _unusually strong contrasts between light and dark, Swan_ , in an email from one of his postings abroad. Italy, she thinks--there were so many postings--so many emails-- _Hey, beautiful_ starting each one and signed off, always, with _your Killian_. They were light and chatty except for the years when they weren’t, when they didn’t come at all, when he’d “gone dark” or so David said, shrugging his shoulders and trying to unclench his jaw at the idea of his friend in pain and hurting.

She can’t see him but when he pulls her closer there is warmth from her shoulder to her waist everywhere they are touching. Who says she needs a warmer coat?

Wait.

The bonfire was the night they went skinny-dipping. David, Killian, Graham, Victor. It was summer but it was still _Maine_ , for fuck’s sake. The water was cold. They’d hovered around the fire like idiots after that. _Naked_ idiots, wrapped up in towels that didn’t cover nearly enough.

Emma, Mary Margaret and Ruby swore up and down that they didn’t look.

They were all, obviously, liars. Emma’s pretty sure that Ruby still has pictures from her phone.

She laughs and Killian turns to look at her. “I was thinking about the bonfire,” she says, and that makes him laugh, too.

“Oh, god,” he says with a snort. “I’m not sure whether to be ashamed or to be disappointed that I’m not young and stupid anymore, truly.”

“I’m not sure you have anything to be ashamed of,” Emma says, mostly just to hear the noise he makes when she says it: Part wheeze, part laugh, part strangled cry, and then he pulls her just a little bit closer as they walk the rest of the way to Aesop’s Tables.

It’s too dark to see if his ears turn pink but he’s still flushed when he pushes the door open, holding it for her and waiting for her to pass. It’s when she’s taking off her scarf and shaking out her hair that she _notices,_ notices him. The shifting shadows of the night and the full moon threw every detail of him into stark relief but now she can _see_ him, the long, sinewy lines of him and the vivid blue of the eyes that have not changed no matter how many years have passed, the skin of his cheeks and his jaw that had once been as smooth under her hand as her leg had been under his now speckled with carefully-maintained stubble that framed every angle and plane of his face.

She’s the one out of breath, now.

Emma tries to take in air as she shakes her hair out of its hat and she can feel his eyes on her as it falls, long and blonde and curled at the ends, coming to rest halfway down her back.

She wonders what he sees, when he looks at her.

 _Hey, beautiful_ , the email said, the one from two weeks ago. _I’m coming home. Feels odd to type that, so I’ll say it like this: I’m moving back to Storybrooke. Maybe it’s time, as your brother says, or maybe I just need him to stop whingeing at me. I know that you, too, have followed the siren’s song--or Dave’s natterings--and settled yourself once more in the nest. I’m sure that you understand my ambivalence regarding this entire notion. But I will say this, Swan, and say it unequivocally: I’ll be looking forward to seeing you again, soon._

There was more after that. Emma doesn’t remember it because the words started swimming in front of her eyes, and then he signed it _your Killian_.

This is it, this is the one thing she always wondered but was always too afraid to find out.

Is he? _Hers_?

He’s staring at her and she shakes her head and smiles and giggles and he gestures at a table in the back, one big enough for all of them. Without even thinking about it she sits next to him--curls up next to him, really, the familiar weight of his arm on her shoulder and the way he still likes rum and she’s thought about him and about this every day since the minute she opened the email.

“Oh. My. God.” The periods and spaces between the words are audible as Ruby Lucas screeches and comes running for the table.

The other thing Emma’s thought of--often--always--when she lets herself sit and stare at the stars for too long--is the night she found out he was leaving, David out with Mary Margaret and Emma and Killian home alone watching movies and sitting together on the couch and he did the thing with her hair that sometimes she wakes up and swears she’s dreamt about.

He told her he enlisted. The United States Navy. Killian had no money for college and no interest in it, for all that he’s the smartest person Emma’s ever met; he liked the water, he liked boats. He wanted to get out of Storybrooke and see more of the world.

That, Emma understood. Still does, even, but she’s left and come back again to David and Mary Margaret and _home_.

Her friends, her life, her job, her family.

And Killian.

When he told her, really _told_ her, he was leaving, she put on a brave face and a fake smile and waited until he left to fall against the door, clutching the doorknob as if it would bring him back--or hold her upright. Emma Swan can count on one hand the number of times she’s cried in her life, but that night was one of them.

 _Your Killian_.

She takes another sip of her drink and smiles at Ruby, watching as she grabs Killian and pulls him bodily up out of his seat--Ruby always was freakishly strong--and claims him for a hug of her own. It gets very loud _very_ quickly as Emma gets up and gives a cheek-kiss and a hug to her sister-in-law; to Belle, Ruby’s girlfriend; to Victor and David; to Graham and _his_ boyfriend; to Elsa, who just looks so happy to have everyone together in one place again.

Emma is, too. If she were the sentimental type she’d be getting teary-eyed, listening to the stories fly and the decibel levels rise.

And watching Killian.

Feeling him next to her.

It’s amazing and kind of scary and not just because Emma’s sure she doesn’t remember half the bullshit being spouted around the table--they’re not that old already, are they? That age where she could swear a thing happened yesterday and only realize as she starts to tell the story that it was ten years ago and she’s not sure what exactly happened at all.

But these people are a part of her.

And Killian.

He’s watching her, too. Emma can feel his eyes on her even when David drags him to the pool table, when Victor and Graham and August scatter to the dart board.

“You’re blushing, Em,” Ruby says.

“It’s so great to have Killian home again,” Mary Margaret says.

“How do you feel, Emma?” Elsa asks, and it’s almost a whisper as she reaches across the table to give Emma’s hand a squeeze.

“Like I need another drink,” Emma laughs. It’s a joke but also the truth; she just knows that she needs a minute.

It’s not because Killian is at the bar. Alone.

Smiling. At her.

It’s not.

There’s a mug full of hot water on the bar when she sits on the stool next to him and his eyes brighten. He holds up in his hand a crumpled packet of powdered hot chocolate and Emma’s jaw drops.

“Worry not, Swan,” Killian says, his grin widening. “I’ve assuaged Ace’s outrage by ordering a proper drink as well.” He pushes a shot glass next to her. “Cinnamon schnapps,” he says.

“What am I, eighteen again?” Emma laughs. “No MacCutcheon?”

Killian winks and points to a second glass. “Consider it fortification in case Ruby is determined to go through with this mad scheme of hers.”

“Aw,” Emma says, pouring the schnapps and the powder into her mug. “It’s for Belle. She wanted to see the Geminids. It’s romantic.” The chocolate is warm and sweet and delicious. She closes her eyes and savors it. Pretends the heat is just from the liquid courage and powdered sugar and not from the nearness of him.

“Perhaps it is,” Killian mutters.

Emma opens her eyes. “Thank you for the chocolate, Killian.”

“It’s my pleasure, love,” he says.

 _Love_. Emma puts her mug down and takes a deep breath and reaches for the Scotch but gets caught somewhere around his hand.

And his wrist. She gives it a squeeze and gives him a look and hopes that he can read her now as easily as he could back then--hopes her eyes are conveying everything words can’t about the tattoos he has there and the fact that she knows about them. His girlfriend killed in an accident and his brother gone in the same span of months.

The emails had stopped. Killian “went dark”.

Emma is no stranger to loss, either, but ever since she moved back to Storybrooke from Florida, fleeing heartbreak and betrayal, she’s been insulated from it.

Ever since she moved home.

She just wants him to know that she _knows_. She knows, and it’s okay.

His breathing is very even until his eyes widen and his lips part and he chokes a bit on his rum.

And then, slowly--so slowly--his hand moves. Killian puts it on top of hers and squeezes back and then turns it, sliding one finger at a time under her palm until their fingers are intertwined.

There’s a question in his eyes and maybe it is the same one she’s been looking for the answer to all of these years.

Emma smiles.

She smiles, and shifts forward on the barstool. So does he.

The world contracts--or starts to.

“Emma! Killian!”

Emma’s definitely the one who swears this time and Killian exhales something that might be a laugh. His fingers tighten around hers and he winks before he lets go and turns attentively to Ruby and Belle, who are watching them.

Along with _everyone_ else.

Even David.

Even Elsa.

Even Graham’s boyfriend, who has never seen Killian before in his life.

“Drink up, lovebirds,” Ruby intones. It sounds like a threat. “We’re headed back to Granny’s for the meteor shower.”

The hot chocolate is cold but Emma pounds back the Scotch and slides off the stool.

“You really should have worn a heavier coat, Em,” Ruby says, “but then again I guess you’ll have other things to keep you wa--” she yelps, rubbing her side, and Belle smiles. Innocently.

The cold air is barely enough to cool Emma’s blushes as they troop dutifully outside, and the moon is full and so bright Emma’s not sure how many meteors they’ll be able to see, but the moonshadows make everything look pale and ethereal--an illusion, a time-out of life, _chiaroscuro_ \--and it’s another one of those moments that she knows she’ll remember for a very long time.

Elsa comes up between them on the short walk to Ruby’s grandmother’s B&B, grabbing Emma’s elbow and being pulled, from the other side, by Killian’s arm on her shoulder. Mary Margaret and David are holding hands and laughing, their breath forming puffs of white air in front of them. Belle and Ruby are wrapped up in each other with scarcely a breath between them while Victor walks alongside, smiling and chatting to Belle about some work he’s been doing at the library. Graham and August, the boyfriend, follow behind; Emma throws a glance over her shoulder and gets a wink and a nod from Graham, a gesture with his hand.

Mary Margaret and David stop walking and Emma nearly trips over them--nearly brings Elsa and Killian down with her--but then she looks up and sees what they’re seeing.

“How did you get Granny to--” Mary Margaret waves a hand at the B&B. It’s completely dark.

“I have my ways--” Ruby starts.

“No guests tonight,” Belle interrupts. “We got lucky. We even made up the rooms for later.”

Emma’s heart skips a beat. Granny’s got six guest rooms.

Elsa, Victor, David and Mary Margaret--Ruby and Belle--Graham and August--and Ruby's 'mad scheme'.

It takes Elsa’s gentle pulling to propel her forward again, into the B&B and up the stairs to the roof. Ruby arrives two minutes later with a large Thermos and a grin, gesturing at the huge pile of blankets near the door. She looks so _happy_ , genuinely excited, and it’s contagious.

Or maybe it’s something else.

Killian hands her a blanket, and their fingers brush.

Emma shivers. _Not_ from the cold.

They are each directed to a spot by Ruby and Emma lowers herself and settles herself and wraps the blanket over her jacket. Killian sits behind her and Emma leans back against him, feels his arms encircle her, his breath warming her ear and her cheek.

They’ve barely sat down and arranged themselves before Elsa lets out a cry and points up. Mary Margaret gasps and claps her hands.

“Magic,” Killian whispers.

Emma nudges him. “I’m sure you’ve seen meteor showers all over the world,” she says.

“Not like this.”

“Did you miss it? Storybrooke?” Emma holds her breath. “Home?” She’s never asked, and he’s never said.

“Every day,” he says.

Emma’s not sure what they’re talking about anymore.

(No. She knows.)

“That’s how you know you have a home,” she says. “You just miss it.”

He chuckles. There’s sadness in the sound. “That sounds like a life lesson, Swan.”

Emma shifts. She doesn’t want to talk about Neal. But they can’t just-- _not_ talk. Not with everything--and it’s moving so fast--

So she says, “Definitely one I learned the hard way. Broken heart included.”

“That’s how you know it still works,” he says. He’s quiet. Emma can feel him look up, can feel his exhalation. Then he says, “Life lesson.”

Emma turns her head slightly so that she’s leaning on his shoulder. His arms tighten around her.

“Another one!” August is giddy. Even Victor is smiling.

“I’m really glad you’re home,” Emma says.

“I am now,” Killian says. He kisses her forehead.

There’s a noise and Emma turns. So does everyone else--everyone except Ruby and Belle, who are otherwise occupied.

“Uh,” Victor says, barely smothering a laugh. “Ladies, you might want to get a room first.”

“We all should,” Elsa says and then blushes when all eyes are on _her_. “No, I mean--it’s almost three in the morning and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m not eighteen any more.”

“It’s cold, too,” David says with a heated glance at Mary Margaret.

And so it’s come to this.

It’s not that warm in the hallway of the darkened B&B but it feels like an inferno after the chill of the wintery midnight. They troop down the stairs, a mussed-up Belle and Ruby bringing up the rear as Ruby directs each of them to a room.

With each step Emma feels more and more as if she is walking on a bed of nails. Emma’s sure Ruby does it on purpose when she and Killian are the last to be handed a key.

“Good night,” Ruby says. Emma is so grateful that Ruby doesn’t wink or smirk or leer or grin or do anything weird. Belle, behind her, gives a little wave and a smile.

“Welcome home, Killian,” Belle says. “I’m so glad you came tonight. We’ll see you for breakfast?”

It’s a question directed at Killian. Emma has somewhat mixed feelings about that and the way his jaw tightens, just for a second, before he smiles and nods.

She gets the door unlocked on the first try and it’s a miracle, because Emma’s pretty sure her hands are shaking. Ruby’s assigned them one of the bigger rooms, with a couch that pulls out and a desk and a chair in addition to the double bed.

In silence, they each remove their outer layers--Emma’s not-warm-enough coat, her scarf, her hat, her sweater--his heavy black topcoat--and fling them onto the chair.

Emma stares at the couch.

So does Killian.

In all the years Emma’s known Killian she’s never felt anything like this--this tension, as if at any moment she might break.

Or he might.

What would that be like?

To break, to let it all out, to end their friendship--permanently--and start all over again with something new and different.

Not as children with a few near-misses between them, but as adults with History and Baggage. As partners.

 _That’s_ how she wants to remember tonight, to think about when she looks up at the winter stars.

Emma gestures at the couch. “Should we--”

He’s watching her and there’s something in the look on his face. He’s studying her. There’s no twinkle in his eyes, just something gentle. “Sure.”

Emma takes the cushions and dumps them off to the side, barely even looking where they land. With a deep breath she reaches for the bar that will release the pullout and then--

“Fuck,” she says.

Stands up. Exhales. Says it again for emphasis. “ _Fuck_.”

“What--”

“The pullout is stuck. Broken or whatever.” Emma doesn’t look at him. She’s looking at the floor.

“Ah,” he says. “I see.” Emma can hear him smile; _that_ makes her look up at him and his blue eyes that really haven’t changed at all, ever, they’re a constant.

But the way they look now is--it’s completely new.

It’s _hungry_. It’s hungry but it’s soft and open and inviting and--and--and--

He takes a step closer. “Don’t be nervous,” he says.

“I’m not--”

Killian chuckles.

“Please,” Emma says. “You couldn’t handle it.”

“Perhaps you’re the one who couldn’t--”

Every nerve in her body sparks as she _breaks_ , as _they_ break; as she leans forward, as she grabs him--

She kisses him. She leans in, leans up, no hesitation as she settles her mouth over his and silences him.

And he responds.

Emma’s hands slide around his neck--it’s only a kiss, but _all that is left in the world_ is this kiss--he makes a low grown and pulls her closer, kisses her deeper, but she can’t get enough.

Might not ever get enough.

He eases back and blinks down at her and the surprise on his face gives way to one of his blindingly brilliant smiles. “So,” he says, “we’ll share the bed, then?” His fingers tighten on her hips as she stands on her tiptoes, pushing herself against the plane of his chest.

They fit together. _Perfectly._

This time his mouth is gentle--he holds back, he kisses her as if he has never kissed before and it was the first time and it was all new. A discovery.

It was. It _is_. He is seeking, exploring--his hands running up and down her back until he picks her up, lifts her feet off the floor. Emma doesn’t resist; they could be _flying_ for all she cares. Her feet are back on the ground, his fingers are under her t-shirt and he pulls it up, off--tosses it aside--takes her hand and leads her to the bed.

The air is cool against her skin and the pads of his fingertips have burned a path everywhere they have been--she is on fire--she pulls away and pushes him onto the mattress; they fall, together. Laughing. Kissing.

There is nothing in the world but the two of them and this moment.

Fuck, _yes_ \--they’ll share the bed.

\--

She comes awake sometime in the very early morning--it’s still dark--she’s freezing cold and the blankets are tangled around her feet, Killian sprawled next to her on his stomach with one arm draped across her middle.

Emma squirms. It’s not graceful. It’s not sexy. But she wants the damned blanket without losing the warmth of Killian’s arm and then--

“Hey, beautiful,” he says. The words are blurry with sleep.

“I’m cold,” she whispers.

Without opening his eyes, Killian shifts onto his side to reach for the blanket and the one point of warmth on her body vanishes.

Strangely, it is only now that she feels naked.

There’s a moment of adorable fumbling as she shivers and he works the blankets up and--mostly--over the both of them. He makes a small noise of interrogation and she says, “Yeah. Better.”

Mostly.

Emma rolls onto her side and tries to settle herself to go back to sleep and then there is a shift behind her--a squeak as the mattress protests--his hand flung across her waist as he pulls her closer, back toward him. There’s his face nestled at the back of her neck and his breath, warm and steady, and his body starts to grow heavy again as he stills.

“You can tell Ruby her plan would have worked even without the couch,” he mumbles. “Is it even broken?”

Emma makes a noise. “You _knew_?”

There is a kiss along her shoulder blade before he says, “I’m exactly where I wanted to be, love.”

Emma twists, just a little, trying to see over her shoulder. “Home?”

“Mmmmm,” he says. There’s another kiss. “ _Yours_.”

 _Your Killian_.

Emma twists a little more, this time to free the blanket now trapped between their bodies so that they are skin-to-skin as she follows him to sleep.


End file.
